He nodded as though considering the point. “Very well, I give you my word, as a gentleman, I will not touch you.”
“You are a gentleman?” she asked.
“I am not titled, but my father owned land and can trace his ancestry back over four hundred years. I am also an officer of His Majesty the King of England. I would not behave dishonorably.”
She blew out a breath. She knew enough of these English soldiers to know they often behaved dishonorably. The rumor was that a girl in a village a day’s ride from here had been accosted by a group of English soldiers, and now all the women in Catarina’s village were to stay indoors and not go anywhere without a male escort.
She’d disregarded that rule entirely in coming here. And she reminded herself that she’d come because she’d seen this officer and known instinctively that she could trust him. It was too late to turn back. She had no choice but to trust her instincts.
“Very well. I agree.”
He released her leg, and she found the removal of his touch and the warmth of his skin on hers more of a loss than she’d expected. Perhaps her mother was right, and she was a wanton woman who needed to marry sooner rather than later. While the soldier tied her ankles, Catarina said a prayer to the Blessed Mother, asking for forgiveness for enjoying the man’s touch.
When she was bound, he stepped back, giving her space. She supposed the gesture was to make her feel less threatened. It did not work. He was such a presence in the tent that she could not help but feel overwhelmed by him. Even the tent, which was larger than her little stone and tile-roofed cottage, seemed small when he stood.
He drew the pistol, her pistol, from his pocket and studied it. Then he looked at her and back at the pistol. “If you have actually fired this antique, you’re braver than I am. It must be sixty years old.”
“Eighty,” she corrected. “It was my grandfather’s.”
“And you planned to fire it and kill both of us?” He examined it closer then made a sound of disgust. “No, of course you weren’t. It isn’t even loaded or primed.” He looked up at her, his blue eyes narrowed in anger. “You’ve made quite the fool of me.”
“That was not my intention. If I had come here with no weapon, you would not have listened.”
“Wouldn’t I? You know me so well then?”
She only knew what she had heard about the English soldiers. They were proud and haughty and took what they wanted. She had seen him and thought he looked powerful enough to serve her purposes but also fair and honest. She’d watched him for several days and he always treated his men with dignity.
But she had never considered asking him if he would marry her without the pistol pointed at him,. Why would he, a powerful English soldier, want to marry her, a Portuguese peasant? She wasn’t even beautiful—not like the pale, flaxen beauties who resided in England. She was dark with coarse curly hair and what her mother liked to call a strong personality. She was not dainty or demure. She was not quiet or obedient. No wonder her father wanted to be rid of her.
She lifted her chin. “Very well, senhor. If I had asked you to marry me, would you have said yes?”
“The name is Draven. Lieutenant Colonel Draven.”
Draven. It sounded odd to her ears, but she liked it nonetheless.
“And to answer your question, Miss Neves, no. I am not looking for a wife at present.”
“And I am not looking for a husband. I would not have asked you to remain my husband. I do not even think the marriage would be considered legal in your country.”
“No doubt it wouldn’t. You are a Catholic, I presume.”
“And you are a heathen, but I do not hold that against you.”
To her surprise, he laughed. His face looked younger when he laughed, even more handsome. His cheeks reddened slightly and his eyes looked even bluer. “That is something then. Tell me, Miss Neves, why are you in such desperate need of a husband?”
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Here’s an excerpt from No Earls Allowed.
Neil woke and gulped in air. The acrid smell of cannon smoke burned his lungs, and the stench of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. His hands fisted in the sheets on the bed, their softness reminding him he was not lying on a battlefield beside his dead brother but in his bed in his flat in London.
Without looking, he reached for the glass of gin on the bedside table. There was always a glass of gin on the bedside table. It wasn’t a gentleman’s drink, but here, in the dark, alone with his demons, Neil didn’t want to be a gentleman. And so he bought gin for the nights when the dreams of battle haunted him. And when he drank the bitter brew, he tried to forget he was the son of a marquess.
He sipped the gin and lit a lamp, taking solace in the fact that his hands didn’t shake. If he’d dreamed on, he likely would have woken with trembling hands and a scream echoing in his ears. For, as he’d lain beside his dead brother on that hill in Portugal, the smoke of the battlefield had coalesced around him, settling inside him. Instead of stifling him, the smoke caught the breeze and the flame of rage ignited within him. The fire built until it seared and burned, and he’d not been able to quench the heat until he rose and, with a roar, stumbled after the French soldiers the dragoons hadn’t routed. Like a berserker, he’d cut every one of them down, even as they raised hands in surrender, even as they’d begged for quarter.
Neil had expected to be reprimanded for his behavior that day—behavior unbecoming a gentleman—but Draven had pulled him aside and given him a promotion of sorts.
If one could call leading a suicide troop a promotion.
The flame of rage had long been extinguished, and in its place laid a weight like a sodden mantle, bowing his shoulders. Neil could not shed it, no matter how hard he tried. Now he rose and pulled on trousers and a linen shirt. He didn’t bother to tuck in the shirt or button it at the throat or sleeves. Instead, he padded to the window and pushed the heavy curtains open. He had a view of St. James’s Street. He liked the sight of carriages and men coming and going from gambling hells or brothels. He liked the noise and the lights spilling from the establishments. It drowned out the sounds of battle that too easily plagued him in silence.
Neil stood and stared out the window for a long time before shoving his feet into boots and shrugging on a coat. His manservant would not arrive until later in the morning, so Neil managed the cravat on his own. As for his wild hair, he combed his fingers through it, pushing the sides out of his eyes.
He had no one to inform of his departure. He lived alone, a necessity when one woke screaming five out of seven nights of the week. He took his walking stick as a precaution against drunkards, who might be stupid enough to accost him, and left for his club.
Twenty minutes later, Porter greeted him. “Mr. Wraxall,” the older distinguished man said as he opened the door. “A pleasure to see you, sir.”
Neil handed the master of the house his walking stick. “Don’t you ever sleep, Porter?”
Porter raised his brows, silver to match his hair. “Don’t you, sir?”
“Not unless I have to. I know it’s half past three. Is anyone here?”
“Mr. Beaumont is asleep in the card room.”
No doubt Rafe had retreated to the Draven Club to escape some woman. Neil might have laughed if he hadn’t come to escape his own demons. Not that the club didn’t have its ghosts. His gaze strayed to the shield hanging directly opposite the door where no one entering could miss it. It was a silver shield bisected by a thick, medieval sword with a pommel shaped like a fleur-de-lis. Under the grip, the cross-guard was ornamented with a skull. It would not have been particularly macabre except for the eighteen marks on the flanks and base. Each fleur-de-lis, nine on the dexter side and nine on the sinister side, stood for a member of the troop of Draven’s men Neil had lost during the war. Neil often felt he carried the weight of the enormous shield on his back.